


Flames

by kittenofdoomage



Series: Angst Appreciation Day 2017 [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Blood, Death, Demon Dean, Depression, F/M, Gore, Graphic descriptions of violence, Murder, Sadness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-12-01 17:16:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11490975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittenofdoomage/pseuds/kittenofdoomage
Summary: Written for Angst Appreciation Day - Dean does something as a demon that he will never forgive himself for.





	Flames

It took a moment before he remembered, before everything came rushing back, like a sledgehammer to the chest. He blinked, seeing Sam and Cas stood before him, his brother’s eyes red rimmed from crying, and the angel looking more stern than he’d ever seen him before.

“You look worried, fellas.”

Sam tossed his hand forward, emptying the contents of the holy water flask over him, and Dean spluttered, dropping his head, just as everything hit him at once. He gasped, sucking in a breath, tugging at the restraints that held him.

“Welcome back, Dean.” Sam’s voice was strained, and Dean raised his head, feeling tears mingling with the blessed water dripping down his face. Cas stared at him, before turning and walking away, leaving Sam stood stiffly in the now-redundant devil’s trap.

“Y/N…” Dean whispered, pulling at the chains on his arms. Sam didn’t speak, stepping forward and unlocking the cuffs, releasing him from his chair. “I…”

“Don’t,” Sam interrupted, his expression fluctuating as he tried to keep his cool. As soon as Dean was free he stepped back, almost unable to look at him. “It wasn’t you.”

The words fell on numbness as Dean looked at his hands, still seeing flecks of blood underneath his fingernails. His shirt was dry now, awkwardly cracking with congealed liquid, and he stared at it, not able to move from the chair. Her face came to the front of his mind, once an image of her smiling, but now, all he could see was twisted fear, before the life went out of her.

“What did I do…” he trailed off, completely aware of what he’d done to her, but unable to process it. Sam said it wasn’t him, but when he could see feel his hands around the blade buried in her stomach, blood coating his hands as he watched her die.

“It wasn’t you,” Sam repeated, but it sounded like he was struggling to convince himself as he backed up out of the room. “I’ll give you a few moments.”

Dean didn’t watch him leave, sitting in stunned silence. Seconds ticked by, his heartbeat loud in his ears, his stomach rolling, and then he turned, throwing up onto the floor. He hadn’t eaten in days, and the bile burnt his throat as he collapsed from the chair onto his hands and knees, wretching uselessly as tears started to spill down his face.

“No.” He rolled onto his side, uncaring of how filthy he was - how could he care about that when he’d done the unspeakable, when he’d… when he’d…

He wasn’t sure how long he laid there, but he ignored his body’s need for everything. Thirst, hunger; it all passed him by as he kept replaying those moments in his head. She’d screamed, struggled, she’d pleaded with him.

And he’d just kept coming after her. There was no escape. A small, sick part of him was still relishing the feel of his blade in her flesh, most likely the Mark, and he wanted to puke again but there was nothing left in him.

Slowly, he dragged himself to his feet, feeling more tired and broken than he ever had in his life. Hours ago, he hadn’t care about anything, had just wanted the freedom - now he wanted more than anything to turn back the clock, to stop himself, because then she’d still be here.

Sam was in the kitchen, making coffee, and Dean stopped in the doorway, unable to meet his little brother’s eyes, knowing that all he’d see was blame. It was his fault. His hands had taken away one thing he’d once treasured above everything else.

“She’s in her room,” Sam whispered, sounding more broken than Dean had ever heard him. Of course he would be; his best friend had been murdered by the one person who’d said he’d never hurt her.

Her room. She hadn’t slept there in months. Dean knew that. She still kept a few things in there, but before he’d died, she’d spent the better part of a year at his side, in his bed. Now he’d never have her there again.

He dragged his feet as he moved away from the kitchen, wondering where Castiel had gone. As he reached the entrance to her room, he found the angel there, stood at the foot of the bed where she had been lain, her hands at her side.

It almost looked like she was sleeping.

“You weren’t yourself,” Cas said quietly, not looking away from her. “I was too late to do anything.”

Dean didn’t know what to even say to that. He lingered at the door, not sure if he could walk in, as if it would make it all the more real if he did. She’d really be dead if he went in there; he’d be a murderer. Like he wasn’t one already.

“I did this.” His voice was so hollow as he spoke. Castiel didn’t flinch, didn’t acknowledge him, and Dean pushed forward, entering the room, feeling his body shake with the weight of what he’d done. “It was me.”

The angel sighed. “You were a demon. You had no control.”

“Still my hands,” Dean muttered, looking down at his filthy fingertips, choking on a sob as he replayed the scene again. God, she’d begged and he’d just… he’d just…  _ enjoyed _ it.

The dam broke, and he fell to his knees, crawling to the edge of the bed. She was dressed in clean clothes now - the evidence of what he’d done neatly covered up. Her skin was pale and cold as he reached out and touched her hand, not even bothering to hold back the tears.

“We should bury her,” Castiel said, his voice remaining frustratingly dispassionate. Dean knew he felt something, but expressing emotions wasn’t the angel’s strong point. He’d been as close to Y/N as Sam had, and no doubt was struggling not to lay the blame on Dean’s shoulders, whereas Dean wasn’t even fighting that battle.

“No,” Dean said, his words muffled by his face pressed into the sheets. “Hunter’s funeral.”

“She wasn’t a hunter.”

Dean attributed the anger he felt to the Mark, but really, he knew the anger was directed towards himself. He fell backwards, releasing her hand, stumbling to his feet and towards the door. The risk of screaming at Cas, at unleashing his internal turmoil on someone who didn’t deserve it, was too great. “She was just a much a hunter as any of us,” he spat, not meeting his friend’s eyes.

Castiel didn’t reply.

*****

No one disturbed him. His hands were cut up and bloodied from the wood, and he hadn’t even bothered to change. Clean clothes were the last thing on his mind, and he needed to be reminded of the atrocity he’d committed. He was trying so desperately to cling to the memories he had of her before he’d gone off the grid, before he’d turned into something so twisted and evil that he’d had no hesitation in killing her. 

The sun was low in the sky as he finished building the pyre, and Dean remained outside, staring at the wooden construction, when the door to the bunker opened and Sam emerged. His arms were full, carrying Y/N, wrapped in a white sheet, and Dean swallowed down the distraught cry he’d been holding back.

Sam still wouldn’t meet his eyes.

For a second, Dean wished his brother had just killed him. Wished something other than this had happened. Wished he hadn’t gotten loose, hadn’t found her, hadn’t, hadn’t… could of, should of, would of.

He couldn’t change it. He had to live with it. He’d destroyed something precious, something he’d never dreamed to have within his grasp, and like everything in his life, it was gone.

No one should forgive him. He couldn’t forgive himself.

The younger Winchester didn’t speak as he raised Y/N up, lowering her onto the flat platform of the pyre. Castiel appeared from nowhere, the other side of the wood. He stared at the fabric wrapped body, watching morosely as Sam arranged her comfortably - not that she’d notice. Dean shuddered at the effort holding himself back - he wanted to burn with her.

Sam stepped back, picking up the small can of lighter fluid Dean had left on the floor, hesitating as he stared at the body of his best friend. His eyes avoided Dean, who was having trouble holding himself up in the face of his grief.

“You were…” he began, taking a deep rattling breath, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand, before shaking his head. “I can’t.”

“She was special,” Castiel took over. “One of the most special humans I had the privilege of knowing. The world has lost something with her gone.” He looked up, blue eyes locking on Dean, and then he was gone from sight, the fluttering of wings accompanying his sudden exit. Sam moved forward, pouring the fuel over the pyre, before pulling a packet of matches from his pocket.

“It should be me burning up there,” Dean whispered. “You should have killed me.”

Sam sniffed loudly, looking down at the matches in his hands, nodding slightly. “You’re right. I should have.” He struck a match and threw it, watching for only a few moments as the wood caught alight, and it began to burn steadily. Dean didn’t move, even as Sam turned to him, stepping in close. “But you need to realise that the things you did were because you were a demon. You weren’t you. And Y/N knew that. This is as much on my shoulders as it is on yours.”

With everything in him, Dean wished he could believe that. But he didn’t, and as Sam walked away, unwilling to watch his best friend burn on the pyre. The elder brother remained, his eyes staring into the flames as he tried to deal with the consequences of what he had done.

He should be burning instead of her.

He knew he would burn eventually.

There was no way he’d end up in the same place as her. And for that, he was grateful, because she deserved so much better.


End file.
